All of my Writing in one place.
Yes, these are all about one person. Quiet
The kitchen hums with warmth, the soft glow of the overhead light spilling over the countertops dusted in a fine layer of flour. The air is thick with the scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and something rich—perhaps butter melting into sugar, the first whisper of caramelization curling through the air. The oven hums low in the background, preheating to a perfect golden heat, its warmth creeping into the small space like a second heartbeat.
Your lover stands beside you, sleeves rolled up, fingertips coated in batter, a smudge of flour streaked across their cheek like an artist’s careless brushstroke. The wooden spoon in their hand hovers over the mixing bowl, but they’re not stirring anymore. No, they’re looking at you—watching with that mischievous gleam in their eye, the one that always means trouble.
“You’re supposed to mix it, not eat it,” you say, tilting your head as they scoop up another spoonful of batter.
“I’m quality testing,” they reply, grinning before licking the spoon clean.
You sigh, but there’s no real exasperation behind it—just fondness, the kind that makes your heart ache in the sweetest way. The counter is a disaster zone—flour scattered like fallen snow, measuring cups stacked haphazardly, an eggshell perilously close to the edge. A dollop of butter has somehow ended up on the handle of the whisk, and you’re not even sure who put it there.
“Alright, if we’re going to make this edible, we actually need to get it in the oven,” you say, nudging them aside to reclaim the mixing bowl.
But they don’t step away. Instead, they wrap their arms around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder as they watch you stir. Their breath is warm against your skin, their hands resting lightly against your hips. “I think we make a good team,” they murmur, and you feel them smile even before you turn your head to catch it.
The batter is ready, spooned onto the baking sheet in soft mounds that promise golden, pillowy warmth. The timer dings. The oven door creaks open, a gust of heat brushing against your cheeks as you slide the tray inside.
And then, with flour-streaked hands and laughter still dancing between you, you lean against the counter, watching the dough rise, the scent of something sweet filling every corner of the kitchen. They nudge your shoulder, a silent see?
You shake your head, laughing softly. Maybe you were right to worry about the mess, about the stolen batter and the near-catastrophic egg spill. But looking at them now, eyes bright with happiness, flour still dotting their cheek—maybe this is the best part.
Not the baking. Not the final product.
Just this.